Chapter 4: The Iron Clubhouse
The roar of the motorcycle engines resumed, but this time I wasn't standing alone in the freezing dark. Jax had carefully lifted me onto the heavy leather seat in front of him, wrapping his large, calloused hand securely around my small waist to keep me steady. As the convoy wound its way off the highway and down a series of winding county roads, the silver emergency blanket fluttered uselessly in the rushing wind, but the radiant heat radiating from Jax’s heavy jacket kept the worst of the mountain chill at bay. I kept my chin pressed firmly against his forearm, holding Galrriets trapped safely between my chest and his coat.
We pulled through a set of heavy wrought-iron gates that creaked open automatically, revealing a sprawling, well-lit compound surrounded by towering pine trees. Several large motorcycles idled in the gravel courtyard, their riders cutting engines and pulling off soaked helmets as we coasted to a halt. Jax gently lifted me down from the bike, setting me onto a dry concrete porch outside a large, timber-framed building that smelled faintly of old wood, woodsmoke, and black coffee. A few burly men with tattoos and thick beards glanced over from the doorway, their rough expressions instantly softening into quiet concern when they saw the dripping, foil-wrapped child standing beside their leader.
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"Inside, boys," Jax said quietly, giving a brief nod to the men as he guided me through the heavy wooden doors. The interior of the clubhouse was warm, lit by amber lamps and a massive stone fireplace that crackled with dry split logs. Within seconds, a woman with silver-streaked hair and a kind, lined face hurried over with a stack of thick, fluffy towels and a steaming mug of hot broth. She knelt beside me, gently peeling away the crinkling silver foil and wrapping me in dry, comforting wool. "Let's get those wet clothes off you, sweetheart," she murmured, her hands steady and practiced.
I sat on a heavy leather sofa near the hearth, sipping the warm, savory broth while the heat slowly seeped back into my stiff fingers. The heavy book rested safely on the wooden coffee table in front of me, its battered cover drying under the amber glow of the lamps. Jax stood a few paces away, talking in low, urgent tones with two of the other senior riders near the bar. I could catch occasional fragments of their conversation—words like estate, registration, and abandonment—spoken with a grim, restrained intensity that told me my old life was already slipping away behind me like a bad dream.
